The Invictus - Chapter XV
Chapter Fifteen
~ Age eleven ~
Prowl woke up early, as was rapidly becoming his custom. As he rubbed the remnants of his recharge out of his optics, he consulted his internal chronometer. He paused as he realized the date-in addition to the chronometer’s readings, there was something about the chill in the air that reminded him of what today was.
Exactly eleven stellar cycles prior, he had been sparked.
Against his better judgment, his spark swelled. He was eleven-just a few years away from emotional mech-hood. He grinned at the idea of growing up as he slid out of his berth and knelt on his prayer mats, lighting an incense stick and offering a prayer to the Holy One. He prayed until the stick burned down and out before standing and slipping out of the room to make a simple breakfast.
Within a half of a megacycle, the light breakfast stew of energon, low grade and copper, and two mugs of steaming low grade, was ready. He set the meals on a small tray and carried them down the corridor. He braced on edge of the tray against his hip and knocked on the ajar door. “Grandfather, are you awake?” he called softly through the door.
“Come in, Grandson,” Positron called back.
Prowl pushed the door open with his pede and stepped into the room. Positron was sitting up, propped up by a few pillows to take a little undue pressure off his spinal support. “Good morning, Grandson,” he greeted with a smile.
“Good morning, Grandfather,” he replied with a smile of his own. “I made us breakfast-light stew and tea.”
“Thank you so much, Grandson,” Positron said sincerely as Prowl set the tray on his knees. “I’m sorry I didn’t wake up in time to make it myself-I was so tired and it’s so chilly out today, I just couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed.”
Prowl winced inwardly at Positron’s words, but didn’t let it show as he handed his grandfather the cup of tea. Positron cradled the cup in his hands, enjoying the warmth permeating his chassis and spreading through his hands and wrists as he took a sip. “Mmm… wonderful, Grandson,” Positron announced. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Grandfather,” Prowl replied, taking his own cup of low grade and drinking from it. He brooded into his meal as the time went on and his grandfather said nothing to him regarding the day. Prowl’s modesty prevented him from saying outright It’s my sparking day, Grandfather!, as he had done in the past. His faceplates burned uncomfortably at the memory. Not so much because of the brashness of his younger days, but because it was things like that made his grandfather bow his head for a beat and be forced to conjure up a cheap something for the occasion. Such was more often than not the circumstances when they were lower on the economic ladder.
Prowl felt guilt for it, but he had been expecting a little something for today. There was only one thing he wanted in the whole village, in all of Cybertron. He wanted a sketching pad and artist styluses. He felt a dull ache in his servos when he saw a blank pad and stylus, and wanted to fill it with the image of something beautiful. He wanted to sketch his orchid, his village, his world-both his tangible world and his dream world.
His dream world, in which they always had the credits they needed and the house was never too cold and Grandfather wasn’t sick or in pain all the time. It was a world… a world so real he could almost touch it, but so very far away.
“Atchaaa, Grandson,” Positron said suddenly, interrupting Prowl’s thoughts. “You need to be going to school now.”
Prowl kicked himself into high gear, quickly finishing his meal and downing the dregs of his tea. “Do you want me to take your dish, Grandfather, or are you not done?” he asked.
“I am not finished yet, Grandson,” Positron replied, “but don’t worry about me-I can manage taking it to the kitchen and coming back.” He patted his grandson’s hand. “Just put the tray and your dishes back in the kitchen. I can take care of the rest.”
“Are you sure?” Prowl asked with concern. “Maybe I should stay home-“
“I can manage, Grandson,” Positron replied, smiling gently. “You go to school now and learn, okay?” He kissed his forehead with an affectionate smile. “Have a good day today, yes?”
“Yes, Grandfather,” Prowl replied, kissing his grandfather’s cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Positron answered, sighing a little as he lay back down.
Prowl ran his dishes into the kitchen and quickly rinsed out the worst of the remains, leaving them in the washing basin for him to attend to later, and grabbed his schoolbag. Checking the contents to make sure nothing had been left behind, he stepped out into the cold air that nipped at his dark chassis. He shivered against the cold and trekked down the path and started to jog toward the school.
He didn’t say anything… Prowl felt niggling tears of mech fluid pricking at the back of his optics. He sniffled them back and swiped at his visor. Unfortunately, the tears were unusually persistent little fraggers and slipped out anyway. Prowl swiped at his visor and cursed himself for crying on his eleventh sparking day.
“Hey, Prowl!” A femme’s voice, calling to him from behind, caught his attention. Swiping away the remains of the tears, he turned around t see who it was. His classmate and closest friend, Lens, was running down the path to catch up to him. She stopped at his left flank, bouncing on her pedes. “Hey.”
“Hey, Lens,” Prowl replied with a smile. “Want to walk with me?”
“Sure,” the young, light coral colored femme agreed, falling into step next to him.
Prowl kept his optics averted until the tears passed. Weakness was something he never liked letting show. The second he turned his head back toward her, he felt himself tearing up again.
He tried to keep the way he swiped at his visor subtle, but no such luck, especially with a sharp-optic-ed femme like Lens around. “Hey, are you okay?” she asked, wrapping an arm around Prowl’s shoulders.
“Y-yeah, I’m fine,” Prowl dismissed, swiping at his visor again. “The cold is making me… tear up, that’s all.”
Lens paused for a moment to unwrap the length of material keeping her spindly neck warm and looped it around Prowl’s neck. “My mom made this for me, and it’s really warm,” she said simply. “You can use it until we get to school.”
His hand reached up to touch the detail work on the ends of the material. “L… Lens, I can’t,” he protested.
She lowered his hands. “Yeah, it’s okay,” she reassured. “I won’t get too cold.” She grinned devilishly and took off running, her bag banging against her hip. “Race you to the school-last one there’s a circuit-fried Decepticoooooooooon!”
Prowl took off after her, arms and legs pumping. He could always claim the cold wind was the cause of his tears… tears of gratitude.
~*~*~*~
Later that day…
Prowl slipped into the house and closed the door, very quiet. Even from the outside, it was clear the house was still and dark, which meant only one thing-Grandfather was taking a stasis nap.
The dark youngling cringed as he thought of Positron’s stasis naps. They could (and frequently would) last for megacycles, and at times it was difficult to rouse him from them, particularly after a strenuous activity or if it was very cold out, like today. The weather was positively brutal-winds threatened to cut through even the strongest of Cybertronian chassis, and rooms were cold no matter how the fire was stoked.
Prowl shuddered off the chills dancing over his chassis as he hung up his school bag and went to the heating stove. The flames were dying, but salvageable. He poked at the embers and ashes and laid a handful of kindling on the smoldering embers, lightly fanning them to coax them to burn. When he had a tiny pinprick of flame, he laid the fuel on the fire and watched it begin to roar to life.
He closed the stove’s door and patted the adjacent wall that the stove shared with Grandfather’s bedside. The heat would no doubt be a comfort to his grandfather’s joints and varying aches as it built up and permeated the thin flagstone. He allowed himself a small smile as he cross the main room to make Grandfather’s afternoon tea and to tend to the morning dishes.
As he set the kettle of low grade to the task of getting to a boil and laid out the powders that made up the medicines to be stirred in (Yay, no more arsenic and bleach!), he turned to the wash basin to clean the dishes and return them to the cabinet.
The black and gold youngling stopped and rubbed his helm in confusion. There were no dishes to be done. He pulled open a cabinet and peeked inside. There the dishes sat-clean, dried and ready for the evening meal. Prowl grumbled in confusion. What was going on? Dishes didn’t do themselves!
Unless of course of someone who ought not to have been doing them had done them during the day… He bit his lower lip in concern. Grandfather’s standing orders were to rest and remain in his bed as much as he could; why was he doing dishes? Prowl rubbed his helm again. Perhaps if he had woken earlier he would have had the time to take care of the dishes before school. Grandfather was the kind of mech who liked to bring order to any disorder he saw… Even if it was disorder his grandson should have organized already.
What a cheap way to spend the afternoon, Prowl mused as he heard the tea beginning to boil, cleaning up my mistake. He fetched the teapot from the cooking range and tipped it forward, watching the blackish amber liquid pool in the mug, and little pellets of powder floating in it before bursting and spreading themselves over the top of the low grade. With skill that indicated a great deal of practice, he mixed the powder into the liquid, watching it swirl and swirl until it stilled. If only his guilt would do the same.
Prowl took the cup in his hands and carried it to Positron’s quarters. Even if Grandfather was sleeping, he could still leave him his tea. Or so he assumed-the door to Positron’s quarters was opened slightly, and the light within dim, but on. “Grandfather?” Prowl called softly through the door. “Are you awake?”
“I am, Grandson,” Positron called back to him.
“Is everything okay?” Prowl questioned with concern.
“Everything is fine, Grandson,” Positron replied. “Please, come in-I’m not a stranger.”
“I don’t know, Grandfather,” Prowl teased. “You are pretty strange.” He pushed the door open and stepped inside, stopping as he did so. Positron was sitting in his berth, a large bowl of the sweet energon Prowl remembered making with him when he was very small sat on his knees.
Positron smiled warmly as he waved his grandson into the room. “Please, Grandson-come in,” he coaxed.
Prowl complied, feeling as though he were walking through sand as he did so. “Grandfather, what is all of this for?” he questioned with awe in his voice as he sat on the edge of the berth.
“Did you honestly think,” Positron chuckled, squeezing Prowl’s hand, “that I’d forget my grandson’s sparking day?”
Prowl felt humble joy touching the very core of his spark, and a few more tears of mech fluid slipping out of his optics. “Y… You remembered,” he whispered. “I thought you forgot.”
“I would never forget anything about you, Grandson,” Positron replied gently, kissing his forehead. “Especially your sparking day.” He indicated the bowl. “Now how about you get two dishes for us and we’ll share this for your sparking day meal, hmm?”
Prowl’s faceplates lit up like a candle. “Yes, Grandfather!” he agreed as he rushed out of the room. He was back a few clicks later, dishes and spoons in hand. His optics gleamed with happiness as he watched his grandfather fill his bowl to the top-to the top and more!-and then fill his own dish. The two generations-grandfather and grandson-sat comfortably, enjoying their treats, chatting as old friends who have been separated for some time and then reunited are wont to do.
“I’ll clean up, Grandfather,” Prowl offered when they finished.
“Ahh don’t worry about it, Grandson,” Positron dismissed. “I can let this slide for the occasion. Besides-” He paused to pull a small, unadorned box out from under his blankets-“you still need t open your gift.”
Prowl’s world tunneled. He’d been wanting it, but knowing that Grandfather had actually gone off and purchased him a gift-“Gr-Grandfather, you didn’t need to,” he protested.
“I wanted to, Grandson,” Positron replied, offering his grandson the gift.
The dark youngling accepted the gift. “Thank you very much, Grandfather,” he murmured, running his fingers over the box’s smooth surface.
“Go ahead and open it, Grandson,” Positron encouraged, leaning back into his pillows.
Very slowly, Prowl opened the box and lifted out the contents. He felt his spark begin to race and a thousand emotions-among them surprise, immense gratitude and concern for the costs involved-when he saw the things in his hands.
A sketching pad and three artists’ styluses, of varying tip sizes.
“Do you like it, Grandson?” Positron asked gently, stroking the youngling’s helm.
Twin streams of mech fluid tears started to trickle down Prowl’s cheek as he threw his arms around Positron’s neck. “Thank you, Grandfather!” he cried. “Thank you so much!”
Positron hugged him back, a little slowly. “You’re more than welcome, Grandson,” he whispered, nuzzling the youngling’s helm with paternal affection. “Now perhaps you’ll let your old grandfather go-I think you’re pressing on a sensory relay and it hurts rather fiercely.”
Prowl jerked back from him, swiping his tears away. “S-sorry, Grandfather,” he mumbled.
“There is no need, Grandson,” Positron replied, rubbing his neck. He smiled warmly. “Anything I go through is worth it to see you happy.”